


The Abyss Stares Back

by appleschnapple



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Here Lies the Abyss Spoilers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 08:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2766161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleschnapple/pseuds/appleschnapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So,” Dorian began, “the Champion of Kirkwall. Vanquisher of Qunari, a last shining beacon of hope in the all-consuming darkness...”</p><p>Someone else could (and would, more to the point) ignore him when he went off like this, knowing full well that there were few things Dorian enjoyed more than an eager audience.</p><p>The Inquisitor, bless his heart, was always happy to humour him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Abyss Stares Back

“So,” Dorian began, “the Champion of Kirkwall. Vanquisher of Qunari, a last shining beacon of hope in the all-consuming darkness...”

 

Someone else could (and would, more to the point) ignore him when he went off like this, knowing full well that there were few things Dorian enjoyed more than an eager audience.

 

The Inquisitor, bless his heart, was always happy to humour him.

 

“Something to say on the matter?” Lavellan asked, already stretched out across his bedroll. This was not quite as enticing as it might otherwise have been – the Western Approach became deceptively icy at night, so everyone went to bed fully clothed with some extra furs to boot. (Dorian had the privilege of huddling up against the Inquisitor for extra warmth, though he did rather believe that Lavellan was getting the better end of that deal. His hands were always  _freezing_.)

 

“Not quite what I expected, was all. You hear Varric – never mind that, you hear  _Cassandra_ going on about him and you assume he's the second coming of Andraste herself. I'm not so sure he measures up.”

 

“It would be difficult to live up to that sort of reputation,” Lavellan pointed out – ever the voice of reason, apparently. “He's lived on in stories – it's not exactly surprising they're not true to life.”

 

“Varric seems to think so. I swear, after we met Hawke in Crestwood I was half inclined to hand him a hanky.”

 

“You didn't, I take it.”

 

“Well no. I like Varric well enough, but that just seems... unhygienic. And I happen to like that handkerchief.”

 

Lavellan nodded reasonably, in the way he always did when Dorian was getting just a little too  _Tevinter_ for him to follow. They'd lived entirely different lives prior to this point, after all, and sometimes it felt like a huge gaping chasm between them, spelling doom if they ever attempted to cross it.

 

So instead Lavellan nodded, Dorian tried not to let his eyes glaze over when things started getting exceptionally elvhen (as was often the case when Solas and Lavellan spoke for extended periods of time), and for the time being things worked.

 

Neither of them liked to think about that chasm.

 

“He's just so... sad,” said Dorian, more to avoid thinking about such things than any real desire to continue the conversation.

 

“Varric?”

 

“No – well, yes, actually, but that's a discussion for another time. Hawke. He's not quite the radiant beam of sunshine we've been told about.”

 

Lavellan sat up with a frown, and Dorian got the distinct impression he'd disappointed the other man. Not that disappointment was something he was unaccustomed to, but the feeling always left him in want of a bath to shake the itch from between his shoulders. That there were no baths for miles around did not improve his mood. “It can't have been easy for him,” Lavellan said. “It's been years since what happened in Kirkwall. Imagine being on the run all that time. And for good or ill, the weight of the mage rebellion must weigh heavily on his shoulders.”

 

“Before they got resentful and kicked him and his...  _friend_  out of their number, you mean.”

 

Inquisitor Lavellan hadn't been what Dorian had expected. An elf, yes, that part had spread like wildfire, and his being a mage had followed soon after – Dorian remembered being dreadfully amused when he'd heard that, knowing full well how that must have gone down in Val Royeaux – but rumour had neglected to mention his delightful (and occasionally wicked) sense of humour or endearing optimism.

 

It had also neglected to mention that if you were hiding something he could  _look straight through you_ , though Dorian supposed that was at least appropriate for someone called the Inquisitor. Dorian had seldom found himself on the receiving end, however, and for once did not relish the attention.

 

“If you have something to say, go ahead and say it,” Lavellan said, having the nerve to voice it as a suggestion rather than a command. As if it made any difference when it came from him.

 

“His... whatever—”

 

“Lover?” Lavellan suggested – as if it were  _so easy_ , as if whatever was going on between the two of them could be laid out in words without hesitation or surreptitious murmurs. As if what was going on between the two of  _them_ could be put so simply if Dorian just dared reach out and – this was not the time for such thoughts.

 

“Yes,” Dorian replied, with more bitterness than he'd been aiming for, “that. He went and blew up a Chantry – and I know the stories, I know how dreadful the Gallows were supposed to be, but how do you justify something like that? What sort of person  _stays_ with someone who does that?” He huffed out a breath between clenched teeth. “That Anders... he's spoken about quite highly in Minrathous – not so much for the stand for mage rights, rather more the blow against your Chantry, you understand; my people  _do_ so enjoy those. That's hardly a shining recommendation in his favour. How is he – how are  _you_  – alright with all that?”

 

It would almost have been better if the thinly veiled accusation had made Lavellan angry – _Dorian_ was angrier than he'd given himself credit for, and a good shouting match might have been just what he needed to get his head on straight.

 

Instead Lavellan just looked... tired, Dorian supposed. Older than he should. “If it'll make you feel better, speak with Hawke in the morning. It won't do us any good to have you glaring at him all the way to Adamant.”

 

“I... I wouldn't  _glare_.”

 

“No, you'd make fun of him – don't look so affronted, it's what you  _do_  – and he'd most likely shrug it off while Varric would get upset and Cassandra would get angry.”

 

“Perish the thought,” Dorian replied, trying hard to look less chastised than he felt. “I hope you'd try and talk her down.”

 

“Of course,” said Lavellan, “but I hope  _you_ realise that she has almost a head on me and could probably lift me up with one arm. I'd rather not intervene unless I absolutely had to.” He paused, and it was clear this moment of levity was to be a brief interlude. “You weren't there, Dorian, and neither was I. I don't feel right passing judgement.” He chewed at the side of his mouth, a tell that in recent months had left a split lip that never seemed to properly heal. “When all this is all over – assuming this ends well and we manage to defeat Corypheus with most of our limbs still attached – a lot of the things the Inquisition has done, what  _I_  have done, is going to be called into question. And I'll be among the first to hold myself accountable. Let’s not presume to know how Hawke feels about what’s happened.”

 

Dorian swallowed. There wasn't much one could say to all that, but he did so enjoy to hear himself speak. “For what it's worth, I'll find you charming no matter how many limbs you come out with.”

 

Lavellan smirked, clearly as grateful for the change in subject as Dorian was. “Really? I might have to hold you to that.”

 

“Well, the head's a deal-breaker, obviously,” said Dorian casually, leaning back against the pole propping the tent up, “and I'd prefer it if you kept a couple, but only if it's not  _too_ much trouble.”

 

“I shall bear that in mind.”

 

“Here's the part where you tell  _me_ that you'll still find me fiendishly handsome even if I return from battle short an arm and a leg.”

 

“Dorian, I promise I'll still care for you even if all that comes back is your moustache.”

 

( _Care for_ , Dorian thought, he said  _care for_  -- but he'd dwell on that later. For now...)

 

“Truly? My moustache? No other part of me springs to mind?”

 

“By this point that moustache is practically the Inquisition's mascot,” Lavellan told him solemnly. “I don't know what we'd do without it. I assume we'd try and replace it with Blackwall's beard, but we'd know it would never measure up.”

 

“I'll have to try and come back attached to it then. I don't trust the rest of you to treat it properly.”

 

“Alas,” Lavellan replied, edging closer and dragging the fur pelts he was hidden under across with him, “you've seen through my master plan to get you out of all this safely.”

 

Dorian was laughing even as Lavellan pressed a kiss against his jaw.

 

 

\---

 

 

“Hawke, if I might have a word with you?”

 

At once Cassandra and Varric were wearing twin expressions of suspicion that Dorian probably would have enjoyed a lot more if they weren't both directed at him.

 

(Stroud  _might_ have also been looking suspicious, but it was so difficult to tell under all that moustache. Dorian could have been the one to tell him that moderation was key when it came to one’s facial hair, but the man  _was_ Orlesian – moderation was probably an unfamiliar concept.)

 

Hawke, for his part, simply shrugged and wandered over, leaving Stroud to take point. Lavellan glanced back at them briefly, looking  _unbearably_  pleased.

 

Of course, now he  _had_ the attention of the Champion of Kirkwall he was suddenly far more true to life. He was tall, strong – even if it'd looked as though he'd missed more meals than was healthy in the past few years – and if no longer  _handsome_ , face broken up with scars both old and recent, he was certainly still striking.

 

And he was waiting patiently for Dorian to speak.

 

“You didn't  _really_ fight the Arishok in one to one combat, did you?” Dorian asked at last, when he realised he'd been staring just a little longer than was appropriate. “Not to belittle your prowess in battle or anything, but...”

 

Hawke actually laughed, though it was a dry, cracked little thing that sounded completely out of practice. “I did, though Varric makes it sound more dignified than it really was.”

 

“That's because 'Hawke nearly bled out in front of all of Kirkwall's nobility' doesn't make for a great story,” Varric cut in, apparently not even pretending not to eavesdrop.

 

“I don't think I ever regretted being an archer more,” Hawke agreed. “I think I spent more time clobbering the Arishok with my bow than I did firing arrows.”

 

“Yeah, that part of the story I tend _not_ to share with people.”

 

“Hang on,” said Dorian, “you've got daggers on you now. Did that experience inspire a change?”

 

Hawke's expression turned pained, and Varric was now  _staring_ daggers at him – as if it was  _his_ fault this conversation was apparently like manoeuvring a battlefield laden with traps. “No. That came... after. One of us had to take point in fights, and Anders... it was easier for me to make the switch.”

 

“Heard enough, Sparkler?” Varric ground out, and this was getting really quite unfair – it wasn't as though he'd been intentionally provoking Hawke, and it certainly wasn't  _his_ fault Hawke's love life was such a complicated mess.

 

“Sparkler?” Hawke asked curiously, though his eyes were still distant.

 

“All flash, no heat,” explained Dorian when it became apparent Varric wasn't going to.

 

“Oh, Varric,” Hawke murmured – and if Dorian had thought the man had looked sad before it was nothing compared to how miserable he seemed now.

 

“Don't,” said Varric – though there was no heat there, _or_ flash – just gritted teeth and averted eyes.

 

Hawke still looked pained, but (bravely, in Dorian's opinion) pushed forward, “I hear Aveline—”

 

“— _Don't_ ,” Varric repeated, more forcibly this time, “don't talk to me about Kirkwall, Hawke. We need to sort out the first mess we made before we can clean up the one Anders left behind.”

 

 _This is your fault_ , Dorian thought irritably, projecting the thought as loudly as he could manage in the hopes that Lavellan might somehow hear him. It was worth a shot, at least.  _I could be making fun of Fereldans and their peculiar thing for dogs right now, and instead I'm stuck in the middle of... whatever this is._

 

For one horrifying moment he thought Hawke might actually be on the verge of tears, but the man scrubbed at his face with one filthy hand, leaving a streak of dirt but dry eyes in its wake, and Dorian told himself it was probably just the dust that had left Hawke's eyes watery in the first place. “He misses you.”

 

Now it was Varric's turn to look so appallingly  _wretched_ that Dorian wanted to look away. “Should have thought of that before he destroyed my home.”

 

“Dorian!” Cassandra called from up ahead, and Dorian quickened his pace to something distinctly undignified to get away from that conversation as swiftly as possible.

 

“Yes?” he said, quite certain he'd never sounded so grateful.

 

Cassandra almost looked amused. “Nothing. I just thought I'd help you escape.”

 

“Darling Cassandra, I have never adored you more and I am eternally in your debt.”

 

“Never call me 'darling Cassandra' ever again and we shall consider that debt repaid.”

 

“Done,” he said agreeably, and moved a few more paces ahead to catch up with Lavellan, and tell him just how _well_ his advice had gone over.

 

 

\---

 

 

He was alive, _Lavellan_ was alive (though Dorian fully intended to give him a piece of his mind once they got back to civilisation and proper food and  _warm baths_ , because he still hadn't shaken that sickly feeling when he'd thought – even for just a split second – that the Inquisitor hadn't followed them). Hawke was alive, despite what had apparently been his best efforts to the contrary – and Dorian got the distinct impression that Lavellan wasn't the only one in for a roasting. Varric hadn't left his side since, as if scared Hawke might vanish if he did. (Not that Dorian could understand such concerns, of course – he was simply leaning on the Inquisitor for support because he'd twisted his ankle during their venture through the  _bloody Fade itself_.)

 

Hawke, for his part, didn't seem about to protest, apparently grateful for Varric's solid presence and clearly more shaken by the Fade than he'd let himself admit while they were in there. Dorian offered the man a weak smile, though he wasn't sure it conveyed 'I am glad that we both came out of this alive' as it did 'if it had been between you and  _him_ I'd have frozen you to the spot and left you there to die', but Hawke smiled back, at least.

 

“We have struck a blow against Corypheus today,” Cassandra said, a small smile playing at her lips, and Dorian decided never to tell her that in that moment Corypheus had been the least of his concerns. “Though I feel the Inquisitor was rather more lenient with the Grey Wardens than he should have been.”

 

Personally Dorian was torn – he liked the Grey Wardens well enough, liked knowing that they stood between him and a Blight, but if this had cost them ( _him_ ) Lavellan he might have found himself far less forgiving. “Let him have this victory. Stroud did sacrifice himself to atone for the Wardens, after all.”

 

“And his sacrifice undoes everything else they have done?” Her eyes narrowed, but quickly softened once more. Like this Dorian could honestly call her lovely – though not anywhere she might hear him, of course. “I'm glad the Champion made it out alive.”

 

“You still call him that, after everything. Why?”

 

A flicker of uncertainty passed over her face. “I am… not entirely sure. Certainly he has done things I cannot condone, but for the people of Kirkwall... for the mages of Kirkwall, he was their hero. He helped them when no-one else would.”

 

“And that's enough?”

 

She met his gaze. Her kohl had streaked across one cheek, a fresh bruise on the other. Dorian himself could admit he probably didn't want to see himself in the looking glass right now. “I think so.”

 

 

\---

 

 

“I'd assumed you'd go up to Weisshaupt with Hawke, Varric,” Dorian said, electing to leave off 'because after Adamant you were holding his hand so tightly I was afraid you'd fused permanently to his skin.'

 

“Still business to deal with here, don't you think?” Varric replied, with  _just_ enough edge to suggest he'd heard what Dorian had left unspoken. Shit.

 

“You should be thankful,” he carried on blithely, just a little more aware of Bianca's presence than usual. “I've been to Weisshaupt. It's not good. Carved into a mountain, cold, dour, everyone so bloody serious they can't take a piss... You wouldn't like it.”

 

“Hawke would be there,” said Varric, sounding so bloody wistful that a Dorian raised outside of Minrathous – warmer, kinder, more open with his affection – might have given him a hug. The Dorian he was simply smirked, lip curled and eyebrow raised.

 

“And he is quite the ray of sunshine, that's true.”

 


End file.
